On the same day that Sonic’s restaurant followed in the footsteps of Jack in the Box and Chipotle asking its patrons not to bring firearms into the establishment, two individuals robbed one of the chains in Topeka, KS.
It’s almost impossible to comment on this. I don’t know what to say. But I’ll try.
Some people in this world follow rules and some don’t. The ones who don’t follow rules also tend to be the ones who rob people.
So what you accomplish by banning guns in your establishment is that the people who follow rules (and who are not the type to rob people) will be disarmed, while those who rob people are just as happy to completely ignore your gun ban because they are not in the habit of following social norms anyway.
The net result of this is that you have guaranteed yourself that, one, the only people in your establishment who will have guns are also, not surprisingly, the ones most likely to rob you, and, two, your sign on the door saying “No guns allowed” translates directly into criminal-speak as “Come rob us, please.”
It means “We serve latte here and we drink Chablis at our very important parties with our brilliant college professor friends as we look down our noses at those ‘bitter clingers,’ in the words of our favorite commie fraud, Harrison J Bounel. Our egghead customers have probably got expensive I-pads and watches and other stuff that you can steal. There’s probably lots of money in the cash register. And you can rest assured that knocking this place over will prove supremely easy as we’ve done you the favor of eliminating our own ‘strategic uncertainty.’ That means that we plainly announce that we have no means whatsoever of resisting you if you choose to rob us. Aren’t we brilliant? Our college degrees made us so much smarter than everyone else, and this idiotic policy is a manifestation of our cognitive brilliance. And we achieved this monumental cognitive brilliance courtesy of a hundred thousand dollars in student loans that we still have to pay off, which we can’t do now because you just robbed us. Thank you for your business and please call again.”
I recall that during one of my hearings, all Madam Prosecutor could do, bless her heart, was to go on and on endlessly about how I just brazenly walk the street with a gun in my pants, as if that somehow predisposes one to the commission of illegal acts. (Please keep in mind that my law enforcement audience by that time knew that I had deduced that I was under Secret Service protection, at least in some minimal, hands-off, “on the books,” ledger-entry capacity. What that means is that if I so much as stub my toe, that calls into being a chain reaction of paperwork that causes much trouble for select criminals in Washington. My law enforcement audience knew that I knew about this status because I had stated that to them during one of my training sessions in my living room as I instructed their junior guys on how to properly surveille someone. My life is stranger than fiction, folks.)
So anyway, I used to pack a handgun at the gas station. No rational person would work at a gas station right off the interstate, in the middle of nowhere, without some means of defending himself from the weirdos who are liable to wander in at any hour.
Do you remember Jane? Jane was the woman who had dated the man who owned the house where I lived. To hear him tell it, they were screwing. To hear her tell it, they were the love of each other’s lives.
Jane decided that she deserved to live there instead of just being a temporary guest, but the conditions of her drunk driving probation did not permit her to live with a “felon.” So in her overloaded brain, she cooked up a brilliant plan to maneuver me out of the house by filing false police reports detailing, probably, how I was menacing her while drinking alcohol. (I never needed alcohol to menace her. I don’t need alcohol to menace an unwanted houseguest into leaving the premises.)
(I have never, in my entire life, known more sketchy people than I have since my dealings with that entity’s legal system. Prior to that, my greatest collision with the law had been a speeding ticket. And now all of a sudden there’s police reports all the time and I’m Public Enemy Number One.)
So anyway, her brilliant plan backfired when, presumably, some law enforcement computer system automatically sent a copy of this fraudulent police report to her probation officer, wherein he learned that she was living with a known “felon.” He instructed her to vacate the premises forthwith and she did.
Yup. Her every machination later, and I still got to live there.
The Justice Department’s every machination later, and I still get to walk down the street with a gun in my pants. So three years later and who knows how much legal ink spilled and nothing’s changed.
If I ever were to be questioned about the practice, my answer is this: “Well where’s my Secret Service staff? I’m sooo scared for my safety!” Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six, as they say.
So the past three years were fun, weren’t they? This is your lesson: Those who proceed from bad faith will never prevail against those who proceed from good faith.